Sense Memory
by Lactuca
Summary: Sam is almost asleep. And it happens again.


**Title**: Sense Memory

**Fandom**: Supernatural

**Category**: Gen

**Rating/Notes/Warnings**: PG 13? What does one swear word get you? Set some time in season 1, but it could be anytime. Not betaed, if you need warning about that. And you may because I am not good with commas.

**Word Count**: 725

**Summary**: Sam is almost asleep. And it happens again.

**Sense memory**

The darkness behind his eyelids was soothing and welcoming as Sam slowly allowed his muscles to unlock, relishing the gentle ache of tension leaving his body. There was no particular evil to fight tomorrow, the motel bed was not as uncomfortable as usual, the road outside was quiet, Dean was sleeping peacefully in the bed next to his and Sam was looking forward to a hopefully dreamless night. He drifted contentedly for a time on the surface of true sleep.

A warm droplet of liquid hit Sam's face. Sam froze, muscles locked by the sudden flaring rush of his senses. He felt every increment of movement as the liquid lost its surface integrity almost instantly and splashed itself over his cheek, rolling slowly down the side of his face. A second drop landed, closer to his eye, tepid and irritating. Sam fought the instinctive urge to brush away the sudden wetness, to blink his eyes open. His mind had gone from blank disbelief to a torrent of thought and panic. _Don't look, don't look, don't look_ he chanted to himself, _don't look_. As long as he didn't open his eyes he would have this moment, this moment of mercy, of suspension, of calm before the firestorm. As long as he was not there to see it Dean ( _because who else could it be_) would be spared the flames that were meant for Sam's eyes. At the moment Dean was injured, terrified, restrained, but mostly whole. There was still a chance that Sam could do something, could reach up and pull Dean down, could shield him from the fire with his own body and stitch his gashes back together and help while he healed or leave before he could follow. If Sam could only _think_ for a few more moments he could stop this, had to stop it.

Dean would be quite close above him, no further than he could be pressed against the low (_flammable_) plasterboard ceiling of this cheaply constructed motel. Sam was tall and the bed had almost reached his knees when he'd run his shin into it this morning so if he stood and reached his arms above him... would he brush his fingers against the bloodsoaked cotton of Dean's t-shirt ( _He never should have worn white to bed_), just beyond leverage before heat exploded above him or would he manage to bury his hands into his brother's clothes and pull him down down to the bed, carry Dean out of this nightmare and return the favor done twenty three years ago?

Sam didn't know how much time had passed, Dean pinned and opened and staring above him while Sam kept his eyes clenched shut like he was playing a demented game of peekaboo, but the liquid was still wet on his face and he had to do it now, had to stand and reach and rescue before his thoughts became too clear, before impatience spurred Dean's consumption. Sam folded his legs beneath himself and straightened them, long arms reaching and his palm colliding flat with the damp, powdery ceiling above him before he could even lock his knees, the dull thump of the contact loud in the silent room.

"Sam?"

The voice, familiar and slurred with sleep instead pain and fear, came from below.

"What's... what the fuck are you doing?"

Sam opened his eyes to see the once white painted plaster above him shiny with wetness, felt the water collecting in his palm and preparing to flow over his wrist and run down his arm.

"Sam?" repeated Dean as Sam continued to stare at his hand on the ceiling, a tone of worry starting to wash sleep away.

"There's a leak. In the ceiling. It's dripping onto my bed."

"And you decided to stop it up with your finger?"

Sam didn't reply, but he dropped his hand and straightened his knees, numbness and relief receding to leave him feeling awkward and foolish, standing barefoot on his rumpled bed with his right sleeved dampened and adrenaline still lingering in his veins over a burst hot water pipe.

Dean shifted in his own bed, wrapping an arm around his pillows and squirming across to the far side of the mattress.

"Leave it for the morning," he murmured, snuggling back into sleep and his pile of pillows, "And try not to kick."

END

It's only teeny and mundane, but I actually wrote something! I felt an urge and it turned into words! That rarely happens to me, so excuse my excitement. A while ago there were a series of very annoying ceiling leaks in my flat (courtesy of the man upstairs flooding his bathroom. Twice in one week.) and water dripped on my face, and my brain made an automatic link between my instinctive flinch and Sam's in the Pilot. And that is the story you didn't ask to hear of how I came to write this.


End file.
